


The Swing of Things

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes grows to understand sentiment. (Sherlock POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Subtleties

**Author's Note:**

> This work being unfinished, there are likely tags to be added; additionally, the rating is apt to change, possibly to explicit. I will post warnings for chapters with explicit sexual content.

The Swing of Things

There is no point in sentiment. It is a useless emotion. 

 

Coagulation of saliva after death (human head in refrigerator): Slow process. Contained in mouth, as head has not yet decomposed—frozen. Perhaps store head in more natural environment (Room temperature; perhaps with nature in future experiments. Note to self: test coagulation and collection of saliva in varying temperatures) to allow muscle and flesh of head to decompose at natural rate. 

John would be angry, however: no need for him to know. Head is placed on table. Protection of table forgotten; surface can be cleaned later. 

Lumpy nose. Closed eyes—when John Doe was alive, had beady, small eyes. Long-time Smoking habit, judging by state of teeth (yellowed) and tongue (burned in places; discolored). Wisps of hair, balding. Around seventy-years-old. Perhaps enhanced age due to tobacco and subsequent carcinogens. Likely died of pulmonary failure. 

Gloves placed onto hands with familiar rubber snap. Cold mouth forced open with fingers; lips plump with fat allow access to inner mouth and tongue, giving underneath fingers’ pressure. Upon closer inspection, dead flesh of John Doe’s face is fleshy. Large pores. Fingers delve further into mouth. Hit against tongue. Saliva slides along plastic of gloves, a veritable pool within the orifice allowing the tongue to float within it. Yellowed teeth—already processed information. Plaque rampant—John Doe was not a flosser, implying lack of care for his dental health (perhaps overall health what with nicotine addiction). 

Hands removed from mouth; turkey baster applied, sucking up approximately four milliliters of saliva. Saliva squirted out and placed onto slide to be reviewed under microscope. Head to be left alone to wait in room temperature for fifteen minutes exactly. 

Saliva reviewed. Fifteen minutes later more saliva extracted for further testing. 

And repeat. 

And repeat. 

And repeat. 

Conclusion: saliva coagulates in a manner that allows it to stick onto inside of mouth. Gloves removed. Shoulders rolled; minor neurological release of endorphins and serotonin to give a feeling of moderate satisfaction. Good. 

“Sherlock, what in the hell are you doing?!” comes John’s voice from outside of the kitchen. Ah. So John is home. 

Sherlock turns slowly toward John, his facial expression trained so as to look moderately innocent. “Experiment.” 

Based upon the coloration and size of bags under his eyes, John has had little sleep; unsurprising, given that he left for his room at midnight the night before. Tonight he shouldn’t bother to persuade Sherlock to sleep at an acceptable time. Shoes splattered with flecks of mud, wet and fresh—took Tube home, walked the rest of the way on a rainy day. Sherlock glances out the window: rain splattered on pane. Jerks head back to face John: his shoulders the top of his head is wet. Forgot umbrella, then. But no, the top of the umbrella peeks out of his coat pocket. Out of either enjoyment or likely need to constantly exercise restraint (probably a habit from the army). 

“Yeah, well, you don’t put decapitated heads on the table without anything under them!” John shouts. They’re still having this conversation? Only moments had passed, it seems. Neck of John Doe’s head is short; jagged edges. Some mortician did a poor job of beheading his frozen carcass. No matter, the jaw and mouth are still fully intact. 

“I’ll clean it up,” Sherlock shrugs. He places his hands in his pockets and smells yeast; flour. Mrs. Hudson is preparing biscuits. Might as well clean it now. Placing the head onto a platter and back into the refrigerator, he scoured the room for wipes. 

“And?” John asks, watching him as he skulks through the kitchen. John’s flexes his hands and clenches them into fists. Breathing rapid. Nostrils flared. John is angry. 

Sherlock furrows his brows, narrowing his eyes in confusion; what else is he supposed to say? 

John deflates with a sigh. “Don’t do it again. That’s all I’m asking of you,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. Frustration mingled with exhaustion, then. 

“Ah,” Sherlock nods, wiping down the table. Of course. Might as well humor John, seeing that his mood could use improvement—“And how was your day?” 

“Long,” John sighs, turning his back and walking to the sitting room; halted, shuffling steps. “Some kid came in with an abrasion on his elbow—and he didn’t think to just put a band-aid on it! Ridiculous…” He shucks off his jacket with a quick jerk of his arms. He reveals his shirt underneath to be wrinkled and damp with rain.

“Reason number one why I prefer the sanctuary of the flat to the rest of the world,” Sherlock agrees. 

“The outside world’s not that bad if you give it a chance,” John remarks flippantly, reaching for the remote. 

A shrug in response. Aside from cases and the occasional person of interest, who needs the outside world?

Twenty-four minutes pass, John staring at the television; an elderly woman requires aid in redecorating her home. Obviously her two nurses are embezzling money from her, and are displeased with her spending the cash they believe to be rightly theirs. John gives Sherlock an eyebrow raised in skeptism, until the end of the episode reveals the two thieves to be fired from their work, publically disgraced. 

John gapes in Sherlock’s direction. “Amazing,” he says under his breath, shaking his head back and forth. Wisps of hair flutter on his scalp at the movement; much like that of John Doe’s hair, soft and downy. 

 

John’s pores are quite similar: rather large, covered by layer after layer of miniscule wrinkle. Presumably his lips are the same. Sherlock is suddenly struck with the strangest urge to touch them. They look rather supple and red in the late afternoon light; fleshy, yet warm. 

There would be differences between a cadaver’s lips, and those belonging to a live human being. A pinprick of curiosity slices through the detective’s mind, consuming his attention. Would another person’s lips have the same give as John Doe’s did, pliant underneath his fingertips? The same elasticity, fat moving in lieu of pressure, but always jumping back to its original spot after said pressure was relieved?

Hmm. When one is curious, they must experiment. 

Sherlock leans forward and presses his thumb against John’s lips; warm. Fleshy, but not vaguely clammy and wet, as John Doe’s are wont to be. Slightly chapped. Dry. Textured, miniscule, petal-like ridges running along the length of them. Without gloves, quite a pleasant texture. Interesting. 

“Sherlock,” John begins (voice tight; eyes closed, brows furrowed so that a vertical wrinkle is formed between them, a horizontal one on the bridge of his nose; jaw tense: anger. Confusion.), “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I like your lips,” Sherlock answers (a proper answer, explaining all that needs to be known) pressing forward and jabbing his thumb against John’s teeth; the gums are warm and rigid, slight bumps in them following the pattern of his teeth. John glares and sighs through his nose, but makes no more argument. The consultant raises his thumb, smearing pliant, bendable flesh upward, allowing John’s face to mimic a half-hearted snarl. He leans forward, studying the pink wet flesh revealed to him, given added mystery by an undercurrent of white; likely fat. Much different from the blue-white mouth of a corpse. “Fascinating,” he finishes under his breath. 

John now looks thoroughly confused, staring at Sherlock as if he had grown two heads; (His brows are lowered almost to his eyelids, jaw slackened in surprise; the vertical and horizontal wrinkles between the brow and on the bridge of his nose are less harsh now, indicating a decrease in anger.) “A’wright,” he answers with a slur, opening his mouth for but a second: the slightest flash of tongue. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen a fraction; his lips part but a few millimeters themselves, tongue curling toward the back of his mouth in sympathy with John’s: curiosity compels him. He attempts to dig in further, past the teeth, and brush his fingertips against John’s tongue, but John jerks back, wiping his mouth as he stares (eyes wide, brow furrowed and lowered: mortified confusion. Elbow raised over wiping hand in a nigh theatrical fashion, emphasizing his pulling back; wiping not with palm, but the back of his hand, his lips bending and pursing toward the side as his knuckles hit at them) back at the detective. 

“What makes you think it’s appropriate to jam your fingers in my mouth?” He queries viciously, still leaning back; Sherlock retracts his hand, folding both together as he leans back in a neutral position. The detective quirks an eyebrow and curls his lip in a half-smile. 

“I was curious,” he answers, quick and truthful. 

“About what?” John barks out a laugh, more confused than angry now—with a hint of amusement, it seems. 

“Comparing your face to that of the corpse’s,” Sherlock jerks his head back toward the kitchen—John pales in response. 

“You—” he stutters, his face contorting so as to express horror and disgust (eyes widen in incredulity, an open-mouthed frown deepens the wrinkles near his lips and jaw) “You just put your fingers in my mouth after touching a corpse?”

“I had gloves on,” Sherlock shrugs noncommittally. In response John opens his mouth and closes it, once, twice, before finally pursing his lips and leaning forward, brows creased in an expression akin to frustration. 

“I’m getting mouthwash,” John finally states neutrally, standing up and lumbering with a sigh to the bathroom. Even steps; not a hint of a limp. Sherlock bites back a smirk, eyes trailing the leaving form of his flatmate. Serotonin and dopamine course through his veins: satisfaction achieved (although the reasoning behind the fresh hormonal cocktail is a mystery). 

That night, at 2:06 in the morning, Sherlock Holmes drifts off to sleep. His dreams consist of changing the soft shape of fleshy, malleable lips with his own.


	2. Clandestine Atrophy

Another date it is, then. 

 

It is seven o’clock when Sherlock is finished with his most recent experiment—decomposition of hair, courtesy of John Doe (White, thin, stringy), Lestrade (Gray, thick, wiry), Anderson (Greasy, black), Donovan (Dark brown, curly, frizzed at the ends; split ends), and lastly, Molly Hooper (Straight. Brown. Utterly typical). 

[Different strands of hair placed into various chemicals. Most of them jarred in vinegar, water, chemically infused water (used from the river Thames); several locks of hair are placed in jars that are filled with wet rocks; other locks, burned. All locks weigh five milligrams exactly. Pigment of hair changing results of experiment? Possibility. 

Wait. 

Wait. 

Wait. 

Three hours have passed. Extricate locks from hair and place them on cookie tray, labeled for treatments of hair. Place each sample underneath microscope. Observe. Write results. Observe. Write results. Place samples back in their jars. Wait another three hours. 

Repeat for three days; sleep is achieved in series of naps. REM cycle never achieved; exhaustion doggedly blurs the edges of vision. No matter. ]

Collapse onto couch for reflection of experiment; need cell phone to inform Lestrade results. Cell phone is on the counter of the kitchen. “John!” Sherlock calls; no footsteps. Silence rings throughout the flat. 

Huh. 

Glance out the window; dark. Interesting. John must be on a date; no matter. Dissatisfaction tumbles through his bloodstream; John should be here, inside, perhaps squeezed into the couch as well. With his small stature, he could easily fit. He would say something snarky and biting as he lay here though, wouldn’t he? Something about Sherlock’s personal space, or maybe about intruding on his thoughts. But with luck, the shorter man would get comfortable. Maybe fall asleep; head tucked in beneath Sherlock’s chin, breathing through his nose against his collarbone. Wispy hair would tickle at the detective’s lips—John would be utterly vulnerable beside him, pale blond eyelashes brushing against his nightshirt. 

The weight and warmth of another person next to him had never seemed so tantalizing before. 

No matter. All his life he had foregone human touch, he could continue with this habit now. Anyway; his mind already begins to stagnate, ambling, babbling thoughts and ideas blurring at the edges of his consciousness. 

[“Why not do another experiment on blood coagulation?”

“Different ways to break bones, and the evidence subsequently left behind—perhaps visit the morgue and—”

“Further exploration of London’s soil composites?”

“Another round of memorizing London’s streets, oh, no, that was already done—”

“Perhaps rudimentary research about explosives and poisons, stay just a step or two ahead of criminals—no.” ]

Thoughts begin and end almost simultaneously, drifting in textual circles around his cranium; bursts of neurological color spill throughout his mind. Distraction. Distraction. Need distraction. 

Loud noises give immediate relief (rush of adrenaline, reptilian brain active so as to overcome neocortex to aid survival) ; perhaps John’s gun might be found…? No. No, the consequences might be especially severe this time. Besides, that would do nothing for his mind in the long-run (but did anything help, really?). 

…Did anything help? After all, even cases provide only a temporary haven from the spiraling inferno of his mind. 

No; no. This is not a time to grow introspective. Introspection leads only to desperate escape from guilt and emotions, and desperate emotional escape leads to illicit and addictive substances. 

Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored! Bored! BORED! 

Tucked away behind a book shelf and desk in Sherlock’s room lies a small composition journal from his childhood; filled to the papery brim with only one word, arranged in perfect order, filled out in a matter of days. “Bored.” The awkward pubescent scrawl is emblazoned on every other thought and idea, rendering them useless and stagnant—encrusted with apathy and agitation. 

Sherlock leaps from his spot on the couch and paces around the room, his robe fluttering behind him. His hands clench and unclench as panic tingles across his cheeks and spine. Bored, bored, BORED! Couldn’t anyone else feel it? How did it not ache through every fiber of their being?! Sherlock claws at the window curtain and flings it aside, scoffing at the world around, the people who walk around Baker Street, ignorant of the livid genius trapped inside. He wheels again around, a blizzard of thoughts tearing through his mind and sanity. 

His back is taut, his knuckles ache from use, and his senses are rearing into overdrive, desperate for some distraction that can ease the burning at the edges of his sanity. 

“Bored?” Asks a calm, pleasant voice from behind him; from the door to the flat, specifically. John’s voice. 

“Yes!” Sherlock roars, collapsing forward on a chair nearby. He is on his tiptoes now, the front of his thighs pressing against the back of a plush armchair that reeks of cheap cologne and old books. His cheek presses down on the worn cushion that supports the back. John’s chair, then. The tensed muscles in his back relax a fraction. 

“Glad I bought you this, then,” John snorts, rummaging through the (plastic—grocery) bag. He pulls out a small booklet; pinching it between his middle and pointer finger, and his thumb. “SUDOKU” is emblazoned upon the miniature tome in large letters, lines crisscrossing the entirety of the cover to create a tic-tac-toe like structure, but with nine boxes in all. The majority of the small boxes are left blank, but some have small black numbers within them. Sherlock raises a brow in reasonable disbelief. 

John himself is perfectly dry, even though the weather is (once again) rainy and dismal. Took a cab, then. Seeing that he usually opts to take the Tube (no matter the time of night, the idiot) this was likely something that had to be done in a hurry. Perhaps had to get away from the date, then (Was she awful, displaying some sort of physical or mental deficiency?). Or, more likely, done as a ploy to impress her with his amount of money—but he doesn’t usually do that, he typically uses manners and his skill in flirting. Getaway, then. Unreasonable amount of serotonin and dopamine flood through veins. Furthermore, distinct lack of chapstick or lipstick residue; no kissing was to be had. John’s clothes are still perfectly straight, as pressed as they had been when he left for his date: no groping occurred, either. Finally, judging by John’s already exasperated expression, only frustration was to be found. 

Another mysterious surge of contentment. 

“Oh, just give it a try!” John bargains, raising an eyebrow (lifting old, tired flesh and wrinkling his brow.)Then his lips quirk to one side in a smirk, just barely puckering. A playful glint is added to his eyes. “It is mostly deduction,” he adds nonchalantly. 

Oh. 

Sherlock snaps up, wrenching his back and shoulders toward John, a staring up at him through his eyelashes and displaying a lopsided grin: challenging. “Give it to me,” he states, his hand thrown out (Palm lifted upward, thumb raised above palm and fingers, aforementioned digits curled just slightly so as to show expectation.)His eyes bore into John’s—The slightest flaps of skin lowered over the tops of his eyes (age), rather large bags underneath them (age and stress—likely due to his time as an army doctor, and from familial tension), the waterline markedly red (perhaps growing sick? Crying? No, that can’t be it. Perhaps natural, generally unnoticed detail? Impossible. To be considered later.); irises are surprisingly blue. With an odd amount of depth, dark and glassy, with an iridescent quality…

That information will be filed away for later. 

“Ask nicely,” John smirks, his eyebrows raised—he’s amused (Teeth peek out from between lips, skin around eyes crinkling, dimples growing more apparent.) He clutches the book behind his back. 

“Give it to me.” Momentary flapping of hand before it resumes its position, palm up. Attention flickers to booklet. 

The challenge has been presented. John’s smirk grows larger, shaking his head minutely (his jowl wriggles just the slightest bit—best not to bring it up, lest he inadvertently offend the man.). His eyes, however, remain playful. Sherlock narrows his own eyes. 

“Give it to me.” Chin moves millimeters to the left, staring through eyelashes—face tilted down in a somewhat threatening manner. 

John grins, utterly delighted (why?). His lips pucker around into a small “O” as he shakes his head once more and utters quietly, “No.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow further, and he assumes predatory position. If he’s smiling, well, that’s just because John’s is contagious. 

He has entertainment now. 

He lunges. John ducks. Sherlock turns sharply, dragging the balls of his feet as he his shoulders snap toward the soldier. In response, John backs away, into the sitting room (eyes wide, smile still in place). His muscles are tense, but his facial expression indicates enjoyment. 

“I want it,” Sherlock states, eyes bright. He hunches again, preparing to leap. 

“You just like the challenge,” John retorts with a chuckle, lobbing the booklet toward the couch: challenge, over. 

How disappointing. 

John looks at him a moment with a half amused smile (One brow turned upward, the other down; left side of the mouth curling up higher than that of the right.), before stating, “I don’t want to break everything in the house, is all.” 

Sherlock simply curls his upper lip and stalks toward the puzzle book nonetheless, cracking it open. For the next fifteen minutes, he solves the puzzles fruitlessly in his mind. 

Honestly, this was no better than slamming his head against a wall. 

John made for better entertainment. 

A thought crosses Sherlock’s mind: perhaps he could act as a sort of puzzle book—better understanding the enigmatic mysteries of John Watson’s mind. That has a pleasing ring to it. 

“John,” Sherlock calls, staring at him for but a moment, “Come here.”

The man in question furrows his brows (creating a small, age-based vertical crease in the middle of them, along with two equally tiny horizontal creases on the bridge of his nose), narrowing his eyes in something akin to suspicion. 

“Sit on the couch; you may still read, but you will be entertaining me.” 

“What?” John is incredulous now, his newspaper forgotten in his hands. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes a moment, patting the seat beside him. Invitation, sent. He raises an eyebrow as if issuing a challenge, and gives a tight-lipped smile. “Sit,” he orders, heavily emphasizing the ‘t.’ 

John takes a moment to lower his head and glare (Giving in, of course), before sitting up and lumbering over to the couch. He heaves a deep breath (Chest expanding, ribs allowing for more oxygen into the lungs; likely for more oxygen to reach the brain and aid thinking processes.)

“Where do you want me?” he shrugs. Rush of pleasure courses through veins. Lips upturn without consent. 

Sherlock pats the cushion in front of him; a slapping sound of his hand against the leather, momentarily cold underneath his palm. “Face the wall, away from me,” he adds as John lands on the sofa and shifts the gravitational equilibrium toward his heavier form. Sherlock leans outward the slightest bit to compensate for the change in weight, before turning to the doctor’s back and staring at that feathery blond hair. 

Individual strands disperse the warm lamplight, lending to his coiffure a nearly hallow glow. 

Sherlock’s hands itch to touch; a tingling in his nostrils informs him of the absurd desire to lean in and inhale whatever scent may be at the crook of John’s shoulder; no. Inappropriate; strange, far too tactile. 

So the consultant instead buries his hands in short, downy locks. 

Satisfaction. Fascination. 

His hair is softer than Sherlock had imagined; moderately greasy (John hadn’t showered since this morning) with thin, individual strands that vary from earthen brown to sallow blond to ashen gray. Tufts spike out from between Sherlock’s fingers, and he wants to grip. 

[To pull. To shove. 

To stare down at a naked chest underneath a flood of warm yellow light, intimate and gentle on scarred tan skin. 

Smother. Crowd. One body atop another, naked and sweating, legs rolling and hips rutting, low and quiet groans being emitted from underneath. 

Lips. Soft against flesh, roving. Exploring. Exploiting. 

Soft panting, hands scrabbling for purchase on a pale and muscular back, fingernails digging into flesh in frantic, pleasured desperation. ]

Instead, Sherlock slides his hands across John’s scalp (Soft blanched flesh that lies protected by a full head of hair, sensitive and weak thanks to its incessant protection), ignoring the sudden tension in the doctor’s back (a flinch of the muscles, hunching his back and snapping his shoulders forward)and the gasped, “What the hell are you doing?” 

No proper answer comes to mind. Hair too soft and scalp too pliant. 

“Well?” A snarl this time, although John makes no movement to leave. Back still tensed, shoulders locked in position. Back of neck tensed, jaw locked; teeth likely gritted together. 

“Feeling your hair,” The consultant answers simply, his hands now itching for more.

[To slide his hands down that tensed neck and rub out any anxiety, to slither palms toward back and feel jutted shoulder blades. 

To memorize by touch the ridges or vertebrae, to strip off shirt and rub heel of palm against the dimples in the lower back leading to its center, then down further, to the buttocks—] 

Eyes widen. Hands wrench back into lap. Own jaw tenses. Inappropriate. Delete. Delete. 

 

 

Intrusive thoughts must be buried and ignored.


End file.
